Chapter 1 Sometimes I wonder how much of who we are comes from our own choices—and how much is shaped by where we come from. It’s been fifteen years since I left Wisconsin and built something real in New York. But some corners of my life still feel borrowed, like I’m playing dress-up. The Hamptons is one of them, all hedges and country clubs and inherited ease, a world away from lake-water summers, Friday fish fries, and midwestern thrift.
“What if they don’t like me?” I ask now, as Dean’s Range Rover hums across the low two-lane bridge spanning the Shinnecock Canal—the gateway to Southampton.
He glances across the front seat and smiles. “Not possible.”
I smile, but my pulse quickens. I’ve performed crash C‑sections, lifting a baby out in under a minute—so why does chitchat with two sun-bronzed strangers intimidate me? Deep down, I have confidence in my ability to pass this—or any—test. But finding someone agreeable is one thing, being deemed worthy of their son is another. Especially when that son is the ultimate golden child. Born with a silver spoon, Dean could be coasting on a trust fund or climbing the ladder at his father’s venture capital firm. Instead, he’s taken on the grueling life of a trauma surgeon at Bellevue, a hospital renowned for serving the city’s poorest and most vulnerable.
I stare out the window, taking in the panoramic view. To the left is the calm, glittering bay dotted with a few fishing boats; to the right is the churning inlet meeting the dramatic sweep of the Atlantic. It’s April—Long Island’s in‑between season—but the salt air carries a note of lilac.
“Any tips?” I ask. “Topics your parents love?”
“Travel,” he says. “Ours. Theirs.”
I nod, silently rehearsing questions about their yearlong sailing trip—the reason I’ve yet to meet them.
“Land mines?”
“Hmm. Let’s see.” He smirks. “Probably best not to mention how good I am in bed.”
I roll my eyes, laughing. “I’m serious, Dean. I’m nervous.”
“No reason to be nervous. My parents don’t judge.”
“Everyone judges.”
“Trust me, you have nothing to worry about. You’re amazing, Billie. And you make me ridiculously happy. That’s all they care about.”
That easy certainty is one of the reasons I fell for him.
Dean and I have been together for a little over a year, and I’m falling more in love with him every day. He’s more outgoing and adventurous than I am, but in many ways, we’re wired the same—equally intense, equally ambitious. And his intelligence only makes him more attractive.
He’s easy on the eyes, too. Strong, dark‑featured, and vaguely Mediterranean. Like an Italian footballer, I thought the night he strode into the Chelsea speakeasy where Greer, Lesli, and I were celebrating Hope Fertility, the clinic we’d just opened together.
Greer, who’d gone to undergrad with Dean at Harvard and did her residency with Lesli and me, had been trying to set us up for months. I’d resisted. Blind dates weren’t my thing.
Dating wasn’t my thing.
“He’s a rock star, Billie,” Greer had said that morning in the break room, somehow looking posh in scrubs.
“Then why don’t
you date him?” I’d asked, knowing they were cut from the same old‑money East Coast cloth.
“It crossed my mind in med school. He’s certainly hot enough,” she said with a smile. “But no. We’d kill each other. We nearly came to blows in a preclinical simulation lab—he insisted it was torsades; I swore it was V-tach.”
“Who was right?” I asked, laughing.
“Can’t recall. But if the mannequin had a pulse, she would have flatlined over our argument. Trust me—he needs someone like you.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Meaning?”
“Ambitious and strong, but still . . . I don’t know . . . soft.”
I knew she meant my less confrontational personality, but I’d made a self-deprecating joke about my figure. Greer had a six-pack and a Boston Marathon body; I had a Central Park walk figure and called it a day.
“Look. Don’t sabotage this with your midwestern deference,” Greer had said. “He’s a total catch, and someone else will snap him up fast.”
The warning stuck—and hit me again that night as Lesli and I looked up from our martinis and watched Dean hug Greer hello, then shrug out of a well-cut charcoal overcoat. A gauzy black scarf stayed looped around his neck.
“Whoa,” Lesli said. “He’s as hot as advertised.”
Before I could look away, I saw Greer point at me.
Dean’s gaze followed.
He nodded and mouthed hello.
As I nodded back, something low and electric stirred in me. The lust-at-first-sight feeling hadn’t hit me since high school, so long ago it barely counted. Lesli raised her eyebrows and headed for the restroom.
A beat later, Greer and Dean were beside me. She made a quick introduction followed by: “You’re the perfect match. You can thank me later.”
She was gone in a flash.
Dean turned to me with an amused smile, resting an elbow on the bar. “Well, that was subtle.”
“And efficient,” I said, smiling back at him.
He laughed. “Greer at her finest.”
“I hope she hasn’t talked me up too much.”
“Don’t worry—you’re already surpassing expectations.”
“So are you,” I said, my cheeks warming.
He shifted a little closer to hear me over the music, his sleeve brushing mine, his cologne clean and woodsy. “I work well under pressure.”
“Good thing for your patients.”
His laugh was quick and genuine, eyes crinkling at the corners. “And apparently for me.”
I smiled back, already smitten, as the noise of the room blurred at the edges.
We talked until last call.
At the door I said, “This is the best conversation I’ve ever had in a bar.”
He brushed a strand of hair off my cheek. “Just wait until we’re alone.”
I smile at the memory as we roll past shuttered shops and desolate sidewalks. Most Hamptons storefronts are closed until summer, but a weathered farm stand is open, buckets of tulips spilling over with color. We stop; I buy a bunch for Dean’s mother—a supplement to the wrapped candle I brought as a hostess gift.
From there, the road narrows, both sides flanked by sprawling estates hidden behind clipped hedges. One of them belongs to Dean’s family. As we pull through the gate, I’m relieved to see no other cars in the driveway.
“They’re not here yet?” I ask.
“No. Not until six.”
Good. Time to breathe. Dean shoulders our bags up to the guest room with an ocean view. I rifle through my suitcase while he flops on the bed.
“Walk on the beach?” he says.
“I think I’ll freshen up first. Maybe take a quick shower.”
“In that case, I’ll grab a power nap.” He yawns.
Thirty minutes of primping later, I nudge him awake.
He blinks up at me. “Wow. You look gorgeous.”
“I was going for wholesome,” I say, smoothing the relaxed pink shirtdress that Greer and Lesli helped pick from my closet.
“Wholesomely gorgeous.” He reaches for my waist, his hand warm and familiar.
Downstairs, Dean opens a chilled rosé with a waiter’s corkscrew. I smile to myself, remembering how he once lovingly teased me about my “philistine” rabbit-ear opener. It’s one of the things I love most about him—that he comes from a rarefied world but doesn’t care that I don’t. I watch as he tucks the bottle and two glasses into a canvas tote.
Outside, a breeze lifts my hem as we cross the manicured lawn and descend the boardwalk to the private strand. Steel‑blue ocean, whitecapped waves, an empty horizon.
Dean pours the wine, then hands me a glass.
“To us,” he says.
“And meeting your parents.”
“They’re going to love you.”
We stroll west, gulls wheeling overhead. For a moment I forget the audition that awaits me and just breathe in the salt air.
“It’s getting chilly,” I say, checking my watch. “Almost six.”
Dean nods, deep in thought. Suddenly he stops, faces me. He says my name as a question—eyes bright but nervous.
The possibility glimmers. I dismiss it—too soon, too fairy tale.
Yet he’s kneeling, navy velvet box in hand. Oval diamond, thin platinum band. Simple, classic perfection.
“Billie, I love you with all my heart. Will you marry me?”
Copyright © 2026 by Emily Giffin. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
